


Final Term

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afternoon delight, First Love, First Time, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, M/M, Pillow Talk, Post-Coital, Sherlock can get ANYONE a gun, Sherlock/Victor - Freeform, Victor is off to the Army, accidental ableism, tagged Ableism for the last paragraph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor and Sherlock consummate their long-term relationship - at last. But Victor's intentions for the future are not something Sherlock was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Final Term

It was odd when at last it happened and Sherlock wondered if he was feeling the way somebody should feel, or if he had missed the mark entirely. Victor, though, cemented that he was perhaps ‘doing it right’ by his heavy breathing and sated smile. Lying side by side on Victor’s midi bed, Sherlock felt hot and sticky and oddly tired - one look at Victor reminded him that this was normal as he could see the sheen on Victor’s forehead. 

“I can’t believe...that you’ve never done anything...before.” Victor sighed, and turned over onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms that he folded on top of the pillow, and smiled at Sherlock who lay staring at the ceiling above them and evened out his breathing.

Sherlock turned his head only and looked into Victor’s dark eyes. “Not really my area.” 

Victor laughed, “Nothing is, though, is it?” He nuzzled his head into his arms to get more comfortable. “Consider this my gift to you for our final term.” His laughter echoed again. “Something to remember me by when I join the army.” 

Sherlock arched up, his weight supported on his elbows, and he stared down at Victor with a furrow to his brow and his mouth bobbing open. “You’re joining the military?” 

Victor nodded against his arms. “I’ve no other prospects. So I’ll be a graduate Chemist, that won’t take me anywhere. I don’t want to be in forensics or be stuck as a pharmacist my whole life.” He said plainly. “I’ll be given a gun,” He smiled. 

“I could get you a gun,” Sherlock said as he flopped back down. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d decided to enlist?” 

Victor shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know - I think I thought that when I actually made the decision, regardless of all the processes involved with signing up, I’d be able to get it straight in my head to be enthusiastic about delivering the news.” 

“Are you not enthusiastic about it now?” Sherlock asked, turning onto his side. “Gun notwithstanding.” 

Victor echoed the movement and they lay, face to face, their knees touching beneath the bedsheet. “I think so.” 

“So, no.” Sherlock said. “It’s a lifelong commitment.” 

“So is this, if you look at it deeply enough.” Victor said pointedly. 

Sherlock frowned at him. “This is sex. A one-time experience. You said so yourself. A gift.” Victor nodded and rolled his eyes, the way he did a lot when conceding to Sherlock being right. “You could always continue to study; get your doctorate, become a surgeon, a biologist…” He listed. 

“The Army can pay for that.” Victor said carefully, rubbing the back of his left hand under his nose as it began to itch. He dropped the hand down again, then reached out and placed his index finger on Sherlock’s exposed right shoulder, drawing lines between his freckles. “If I wanted to do it.”

“You don’t though?” Sherlock asked, his eyes fixed on Victor’s as he watched his finger drawing. 

Victor snapped his eyes to Sherlock, “Since my first term here, I’ve not been sure of anything I want to do. You get in my head, you’ve changed my mind. Part of me is intrigued by you, part of me is intrigued by aspects of you…” 

“The epilepsy.” Sherlock said with a slow blink. 

“Neurosurgeons get paid well.” Victor said with a smirk as he drew his eyes back to the movements of his hand. “What if I could get my medical degree while serving in the Army; two birds at once. I could leave the Army after my obligatory tour of duty and maybe specialise. Ten years from then, I could be coming to you to trial a drug I know is going to abolish your symptoms.” 

Sherlock wet his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. “Well I made it through sex with you without seizing, so I think perhaps the answer to that ‘ten years from now’ drug might just be intercourse.” Victor laughed loudly and drew his arm back in against his chest, his teeth on show as the laughter died into a smile. “I won’t tell you not to join the Army, I won’t tell you what to study. Your life is your own, Victor.” 

“But yours isn’t.” Victor said quietly. His eyes scanned Sherlock’s face. “You’re here because your brother went here; you’re studying chemistry because your mother was fond of the idea that you were a scientist; your personality is your family’s and your tics and expressions are your condition’s. What do you even have in your life that is yours?” Sherlock considered the question and found he didn’t know how to answer it. Such as Victor was a lay person, he had nailed Sherlock in one deduction where Sherlock had failed to encapsulate him in their four years of friendship. “Don’t answer that question.” Victor told him, turning onto his back before he sat up. He reached to the floor for his discarded underwear and pulled them on. “Just promise me you’ll do something for yourself for once, something you want to do for the sake of doing it, not because it’s within your enforced nature.” He said as he got to his feet. He stood at the edge of the bed and looked down at Sherlock. “Join the Navy, sleep with a woman, eat your weight in chocolate, drink a bottle of cider…” He smiled, “Anything that is yours and yours alone, not based on your upbringing or your neurological changes.” 

Sherlock turned onto his back as Victor disappeared into their small, shared bathroom and wondered if post-coital conversations were always so intense. He stared at the ceiling, his left hand twisting in his disordered curls, and thought about Victor’s speech. Did he really see him as a well-off kid who did nothing but what was expected of him? If that was who he was...he’d be Mycroft! He sighed and turned onto his side, facing the space in the bed that Victor had left, and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, the room was duller and over an hour and a half had passed. At the small desk by the window in the furthest reach of the room, Victor was reading and Sherlock stretched out and spotted him as he twisted his sleep drunk muscles. 

“Good to see you were tired out.” Victor’s voice intruded on the quiet and Sherlock smiled and hummed in his throat. “It’s almost four; do you want to get a shower and go and have dinner?” 

Sherlock shook his head on the pillows and pushed his left hand into his hair, bending the half-spirals around his index and middle fingers. “No,” He yawned. “I’ve got to get the train at six-thirty. Mycroft’s meeting me.” 

“Oh,” Victor said, putting down his book and getting up from the chair. He walked across to the bed and flopped down onto the mattress, on top of the sheets, beside Sherlock. “I thought you were staying here this weekend?” 

“Next weekend.” Sherlock reminded him. 

“Oh yes.” Victor nodded, mouthing ‘next weekend’ to himself. “I forgot.” 

“You’re annoyed.” Sherlock said. 

Victor picked at the bedding, “No - but yes, this kind of feels like a love ‘em and leave ‘em situation.” 

“If I hadn’t fallen asleep would it still feel like that?” Sherlock asked, tugging his hand out of his hair. 

“Well, we could have had a late lunch, so no…” Victor teased. “No, I’m being possessive. Go home to your family, continue to pretend that you and I aren’t together, and make them proud by showing up there clean.” 

Sherlock turned over onto his side and looked at the profile of Victor’s face. “If they asked, I’d tell them, but they’re not interested in anything other than watching me for behavioural cues of one of two things; seizures or drug use. I’m an experiment to them.” 

“So stay.” Victor whispered and tilted his head to look at Sherlock. 

“Next weekend.” Sherlock said, nodding his head to cement the promise. “I need to have a shower.” 

“Wait a while,” Victor said as Sherlock sat up. “You just woke up. I’ll drive you to the station, save you catching the bus, so that give you an extra few minutes. Lie there for a bit?” He said, pushing Sherlock back to lie down with a firm hand on his chest. “Last thing I want is you falling over in the shower.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be forced back onto the bed. “Send a text to your brother, tell him you’ll get the train a half hour later and to pick you up a bit later.” 

“Yes, boss.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

Victor nodded, considering the nickname. “I am the boss.” 

“Lie down next to me then.” Sherlock said, pulling Victor’s arm in. 

“And risk you punching me in the back when you start disco dancing, no thanks.” Victor teased and hoped Sherlock took the endearing side of his jibe. Sherlock chuckled, though, and Victor got to his feet. He wanted to say ‘I love you, Sherlock Holmes’, but even after four years of realising this man was what he had been missing in his life up until this point, it felt far too early.


End file.
